


Perfume & Letters

by WednesdayGilfillian



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Retail, F/F, Romantic Comedy, Women in suits, anonymous letters, please take with a grain of salt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9158197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdayGilfillian/pseuds/WednesdayGilfillian
Summary: [1930's AU] Carol Aird is the head clerk at Frankenberg's, a small New York parfumerie. She's perfectly contented with her job, her friend Abby, and her anonymous correspondence with a rather lovely girl...and then a Miss Belivet walks into the shop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this is going to be ridiculous. The idea wouldn't leave me alone, though, so here we are.
> 
> Basically, I'm mixing a few of my favourite things and putting Carol & Therese into a 1930's romantic comedy. The plot is lifted from Miklós László's 1936 play 'Parfumerie', which has been adapted many times ('She Loves Me', 'Shop Around the Corner', 'You've Got Mail'). If you're familiar with any of those, the plotline won't come as a surprise to you...but I hope I can keep enough of Carol & Therese's essential personalities intact that it'll still ring true.
> 
> In this setting, there's no Rindy and no Harge; the only barriers Therese & Carol come up against will be ones of their own making. 
> 
> Argh, I feel very silly for writing this. (But hey, I like thinking about Cate Blanchett in waistcoats, so...)

The window display at Frankenberg’s was always a triumph. For a such small store, dealing in perfume and cosmetics and other odds and ends, it punched well above its weight in terms of style. At the moment the emphasis was on florals, for the warmer months; the window was decked with paper flowers, and bottles of perfume with names like ‘Roses of Italy’.

It was too early yet for the shop to be open, but the day was steadily brightening…and a few moments later, a woman rounded the corner. She might have been a film star, in the Greta Garbo/Marlene Dietrich mould; all cropped curls and cheekbones and rouge lips. She cut a striking figure, too, in a grey flannel suit that was perhaps cheaper than the kind Garbo would go for, but was nonetheless equally dapper.

Striding up to the storefront, the woman patted her pockets and fished out a large brass key, glancing over her shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps. Coming up behind her was an auburn-haired woman of about the same age – though rather more conventionally attired.

“Morning, Miss Aird!”  
“Morning yourself, Abigail,” the other grinned, good-naturedly. The door opened with a click, and the two of them entered, pausing only to switch on the lights.

“It’s too nice a day to be cooped up in here,” Abby complained, half-heartedly. She was already polishing the glass front of a counter.  
“Hmm. What say we close the store and run off for a picnic?” the woman named Carol suggested. “I’m sure Mr. Frankenberg would forgive us.”  
“He might forgive _you_ …”

It was true that Mr. Frankenberg favoured Carol above his few other employees. Perhaps it was the number of years she’d worked for him. Perhaps it was that she was so dependable. Perhaps it was her roguish charm and her penchant for wearing waistcoats. Whatever the reason, Mr. Frankenberg looked upon her as…well, as the son he’d never had. Which _was_ odd, perhaps, but sweet too. The old fellow was terribly well-meaning…and remarkably open-minded.

Ambling over to a display of shampoo and rearranging the bottles, Carol began to whistle brightly. Abby shot her a knowing look.  
“I _would_ ask what’s got you so chipper this morning, but then I think I can guess. You got another letter?”  
“I might have done,” said Carol, feigning indifference. “And really, Abby, there’s no one to blame but yourself. I would never have written in if you hadn’t badgered me so relentlessly.”

Abby opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment Mr. Frankenberg came bustling in, taking off his hat.  
“Good morning, Miss Aird! Miss Gerhard!”  
“Good morning, Mr. Frankenberg.”  
The old man smiled appraisingly around the shop he’d owned for decades.  
“Ship-shape, as usual. The new window display is perfection, Miss Aird. I really don’t know what we’d do without you.”  
Carol gave a brisk, cheerful nod and clicked her heels together, like a soldier reporting for duty.

“What I don’t understand, Miss Aird,” the old fellow continued, “is why you’re not paired off yet. You’ve got to settle down _some_ time, you know. You just have to find the right…person.”  
Abby smirked, knowing how Carol would feel about their employer’s habitual, well-meaning nosiness. (And his amusing attempt at subtlety.)  
“Don’t worry, Mr. Frankenberg,” she winked, “I’m working on it!”

As the old man ambled away, chuckling, Carol gave her workmate a gentle shove.  
“You’re awful. He’s going to think we’re together.”  
“Well, two years ago he would’ve been right. But now you’re getting letters from another girl…”  
Abby cast one hand dramatically across her brow, as though she were the helpless damsel in a Victorian melodrama. Carol rolled her eyes.

“As I said, Abby, no one to blame but yourself. I am not the type to write in, of my own volition, to a…”  
She glanced around, lowering her voice to a whisper as though the next words were something obscene. “ _Lonely Hearts Club_.”  
“It’s not a Lonely Hearts Club-”  
“Shh!!”  
“Not in the ordinary sense. It’s an agency that sets up correspondence between…people with specific interests.”  
“Is _that_ what they’re calling it these days?” Carol asked, dryly.  
“Well, you can’t tell me I wasn’t right. You _are_ enjoying yourself.”

The blonde’s smirk slipped into a soft, embarrassed smile.  
“Alright, I am. I think I struck it lucky, though. Surely not everyone writes such articulate letters as the girl who’s writing to me.”  
“When are you going to ask for her name? Or a photograph?”  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Carol hedged, fiddling with the till. “There’s no rush. And there’s a certain charm to it, this not knowing.”  
Abby might have pressed her further, but opening time was upon them.

Carol enjoyed her work, on the average day. She was certainly the star salesperson in Mr. Frankenberg’s small team. Their products appealed primarily to young ladies and housewives, and Carol knew just how to charm and flatter that particular audience. (Her approach did vary, of course, depending on the…type of woman. The suits and the swagger certainly did her no harm on that front.)

Today, though, the pleasure she normally derived from flattering and flirting and making sales paled in comparison to a different, newer thrill. The letter she’d received that morning – at her private, anonymous post box – was burning a hole in her pocket. She had already read it, but then she never read letters just once, not letters like these. (Actually, she’d never had ‘letters like these’ before.) The funny thing was, they weren’t at all salacious. That wasn’t what made receiving them so…well, exciting.

It was, she supposed, the sheer _potential_ ; the sense that, somewhere out there in New York City, there was this girl who seemed just too good to be true. (And it couldn’t go horribly wrong, because it hadn’t really started. They’d never even met.)

\--

Before they’d started exchanging letters, the agency had supplied them both with a sort of conversation-starting questionnaire, obviously designed to communicate key personal traits without making either party uncomfortable. It felt a bit silly, but it clearly served a purpose.  
One of the questions had been: _Favourite item in your wardrobe?_

The obvious choice for Carol was her best suit; and, by way of explanation, she scrawled on the paper _“it makes me feel like Marlene Dietrich”._  
She had been interested, and not displeased, to see that her anonymous correspondent had answered:  
_“My cranberry-coloured party dress. Or the incredibly comfortable sweater I bought half-price last winter. (Depends on the context.)”  
_It was much too early to leap to conclusions – but this stranger sounded like she might just be Carol’s kind of girl.

Another key question: _In which decade were you born?  
_ That one had made her cringe a little, not least when she compared her answer with the stranger’s, and found a difference of approximately ten years. But evidently the younger woman was unconcerned by this, because after a few days had passed Carol had received a letter.

_Dear Friend,_

_(I couldn’t think how else to address you, I’m sorry. We could always invent code names, I suppose?)_

_I enjoyed reading over your answers to the questionnaire. It’s funny how much little things can tell you about a person._

_(Oh dear, I’m making small talk already, aren’t I? Forgive me, I’m a little nervous. But then, if you really do look anything like Marlene Dietrich, I’d say I have good reason. Did you see her in ‘Morocco’? That was a bit of a turning point for me, actually.)_

_Anyway, if you are interested in exchanging letters, I suppose there’s any number of things we could talk about: movies, books, the best place to get ice cream…but nothing too personal just yet, if you don’t mind._

_One thing the questionnaire didn’t ask: have you done this sort of thing before? I haven’t.  
I am, however, an experienced letter-writer. (By eight years old I was on first name terms with our local postman.) _

_Anyway, I hope this finds you well._

_Hoping to hear from you,  
A friend_

Carol had grinned all that morning, and had written back as soon as she’d had the chance. They’d been corresponding now for about a month, and though the anonymity between them was still complete, Carol felt that she knew this girl. (And liked her, too. Perhaps more than she’d care to admit.)

\--

She was still in a good mood a few hours later, when Mr. Frankenberg drew her over to the shelf where they stocked those items that were not cosmetics; jewellery boxes and ornaments and anything else that might catch the eye of a lady as she passed. Lately they’d been having some success with paper dolls, which mothers would buy on a whim for their little girls. But what Mr. Frankenberg wanted to show Carol now was something quite different.

“Just in this morning!” he beamed, pointing to a large-ish box on the floor. It appeared to be a train set, with tracks and a station and three hand-painted carriages. Carol stared – and Mr. Frankenberg interpreted her silence as admiration.  
“Isn’t it marvelous?”

“But, Mr. Frankenberg,” she began, carefully, “who’s going to buy it? The ladies who come in here have their minds on perfume and powder and lipstick. If they wanted a gift for their little boys, they’d go round the corner to Hammerschmitt’s.”  
Mr. Frankenberg looked quite unperturbed.

“Ahh, Miss Aird, you underestimate the power of the ‘impulse buy’. I know it’ll sell. In fact, I’ll bet you…ten dollars, that that train set will have sold before the day is over.”  
Carol laughed, shoving her hands deep in her pockets.  
“I don’t want to take your money, sir,” she grinned.  
“Maybe you’re just not so confident…”  
“Fine, it’s a bet!” Carol reached out to shake on it, unable to back down. Mr. Frankenberg chuckled.  
“I’m sure you’ll be gracious in defeat.”

Carol rolled her eyes laughingly, and then looked up at the tinkle of the shop bell. A new customer had just come through the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely responses! I had been quite nervous about posting this story...but then I should've known that I'm not the only one with a weakness for Blanchett-in-suits!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Enter Therese...

At the tinkle of the shop bell, both Abby and Carol had looked up to see who had entered. And, almost simultaneously, their eyes had widened.

Their newest customer was a dark-haired young woman; a pretty, petite little thing. She was smartly dressed in a navy blue day dress with white hat and gloves, and looked nervous, as though she were on her way somewhere important. She also looked exactly Carol’s type.

_What a treat…_

Seeing Abby moving forward with ‘Good day, madam,’ practically forming on her lips, Carol quickly cut in front of her. “Don’t even think about it,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth, and Abby huffed, reluctantly falling back.

Approaching the young woman, Carol turned on her most charming smile. She was going to give this one her all.  
“Good day, madam. May I help you?”  
“Uh, yes…”  
The girl was staring slightly; a promising sign. Time for the sales routine.  
“We have an extensive range of cosmetics – everything the fashionable young lady requires. Lipstick, nail polish, mascara…and of course a fine selection of perfumes. Just this week, in fact, we have a special on an exotic new scent called ‘Mirage’. Here, let me spray a little on your hand-”  
“No.”

“…No?” _  
_ Carol frowned, wondering if she’d misheard. This was not the way things were supposed to go. Not for her.

“No,” the young woman repeated, now sounding more sure of herself. “I mean, since I’m not going to buy any. Not today. I was hoping to speak with Mr. Frankenberg?”  
Carol tried again, giving a roguish smile. “Perhaps I can help you?”  
“I…I think I’d better speak with Mr. Frankenberg personally.”

Carol pursed her lips, feeling a flare of irritation. Was she losing her touch?  
“Uh, well, he is quite busy.”  
“I’ll wait,” the girl insisted. “I don’t mind.”  
She was like a deer in the headlights. A pretty, slender, surprisingly obstinate deer.

“Very well. If you give me your name…”  
“Therese. Belivet.”  
“Right, well, I’ll let Mr. Frankenberg know-”  
“Just one thing-”

The girl looked nervous again.  
“Yes?”  
“You don’t happen to know whether Mr. Frankenberg is looking for extra staff…do you?”  
_Oh, of course._ Carol put her hands on her hips.

“Are you looking for a job?”  
“Well, yes. That’s what it comes down to.”  
Carol’s expression must have been stony, because the young woman began to ramble slightly.  
“I’m a very experienced salesgirl – really. I worked at H&J Barnett’s for two years. Two years and eight months. And I can learn on my feet.”  
_Oh, so now she’s trying to make a pitch to me?  
_“Well, that will be for Mr. Frankenberg to-”

“Did I hear my name, Miss Aird?”  
Mr. Frankenberg came bustling over, smiling merrily beneath his moustache.  
“Oh, ah, yes,” Carol recovered herself, feeling at last on home ground. She knew Mr. Frankenberg, knew how he would handle this.   
“Miss…Belivet, here, would like a job.”

She’d put it very bluntly, and might _almost_ have felt bad – if not for the vindictive urging of her wounded pride. As it was, the young lady blanched, and Mr. Frankenberg assumed a fatherly expression.  
“Well, I _am_ sorry, Miss Belivet. We’re not hiring just at present. But please do keep us in mind for the future.”  
“Oh. Well, thank you for your time.”  
The girl was almost painfully polite.

With one last look at Carol, she set off across the room, dark head held high – and was almost bowled over by a little boy who was dragging his mother by the hand. He looked a regular little nightmare, howling something about candy while his mother fretted and his sister trailed silently behind.

“Oh, I _am_ sorry,” the harried mother apologised, trying to stay upright as her son put all his weight into pulling her away. “I was going to buy this powder…”   
She pressed it into Miss Belivet’s hands, evidently mistaking her for an employee.   
“If you’d just hold it, and keep an eye on my Ruth, I’ll be back just as soon as Walter settles down a little. She’s a quiet girl, she won’t be any trouble. Walter, hush! Yes, I’m coming…”  
And Miss Belivet was left standing there, holding the powder compact, the glum little girl looking up at her expectantly. Carol wasn’t sure which of the two she felt sorrier for.

 _Suppose I’d better come to her rescue…  
_ Striding over, Carol offered a sympathetic smile, and reached out her hand for the compact.  
“I’ll take care of this.”  
But Miss Belivet didn’t move.  
“I can cope, thank you.”   
Her tone was frosty. Almost defiant.  
Carol shrugged as if to say _‘As you wish’_ , and sauntered away, leaving the girl to her fate. Back at her counter, though, she had to watch from across the room.

Miss Belivet looked down at the little girl. She was eight, perhaps, with mousy hair in braids.  
“I suppose your mother won’t be very long… It’s Ruth, isn’t it?”  
The child nodded.  
“My name’s Therese.”  
She looked around, and her gaze settled on the shelf of ornaments and paper dolls.  
“If you could have any one thing on that shelf, what would it be?”

Ruth’s face lit up a little, and she scanned the items intently.  
“Well, on the _shelf_ …”  
“Or anywhere,” Therese added, quickly, noticing that the girl’s gaze had been caught by a large box on the floor. The child gave her a guilty smile.  
“Most of all, I think I’d like that train set.”  
“Excellent choice, madam!” Therese put on a deep voice, and the little girl laughed in response.  
“It’s got tracks and a station and everything. But Walter would probably step on it.”  
“Not if I had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t.”

Across the room, Carol was staring.  
_The nerve of the girl, really… Still, she is good… _

She was even more astounded five minutes later, when she looked up to find Ruth’s mother standing in front of Mr. Frankenberg, with the powder compact in one hand and the boxed train set in the other.  
“You have an excellent employee there,” the woman nodded towards Miss Belivet, who looked panic-stricken, but was trapped in the stream of little Ruth’s excited chatter.  
“Thank you very much,” said Mr. Frankenberg, a slight raise to his eyebrows the only indication that he was at all surprised. “Ah, and I see you found the train set! It’s just in today, you know. Not our usual stock, perhaps, but I think they’re going to be very popular.”

Carol had begun to grind her teeth.

She watched in disbelief as Mr. Frankenberg turned to address their accidental salesgirl.   
“Miss Belivet, I’m going to have to eat my words. It appears that we _are_ hiring – if you’re still interested, that is.”  
The young woman gaped.  
“I…Of course! Yes! Thank you very much!”  
“In that case, welcome to Frankenberg’s. And now, Miss Aird…” the old man continued without looking round, as though he’d known she had been watching, “I believe we had a bet.”

Counting out the bills from her wallet, Carol glared at Therese Belivet’s retreating back.

\--

By the time she got home that evening, Carol was exhausted. The day had just been so…disconcerting. And her small apartment – cozy as it was, with books and art prints and a decanter of whiskey – was not much to come home to.

At least, now, she could distract herself with thoughts of her ‘Dear Friend’. How had _her_ day been, Carol wondered? Was she at home right now, curled up in that favourite sweater?

Smiling at the thought, Carol undid the top few buttons of her shirt, discarding the tie. On her table waited the pile of Dear Friend’s letters – she’d kept every one – and her own notepad and pen. How to begin?

_Dear Friend,_

_I’m so used to calling you that, now. Though if you do go back to your code-name idea, let me know and I’ll come up with something suitably mysterious._

_I hope your week’s going well? I had a strange day at work, but never mind. I do love it, every other day._

_I never imagined that I’d work the job I do. It wasn’t expected that I’d have to work at all, but as I grew older I began to disagree with my family on a number of topics. (You can probably imagine.) So, here I am. And I wouldn’t swap this freedom for anything._

_Anyway, my cat is much better company. (I have a cat – have I told you that, yet?) His name is Harry, and he’s very smoochy. He’d just throw himself at you, if you ever came to visit._

_You said you had tickets to a play – was it any good? I don’t get to the theater as much as I’d like. I really should make time._

_I suppose I should get to bed. I can hear a hot chocolate calling me… (That makes me sound soft, doesn’t it? Please imagine me as a dapperly-dressed tower of strength…who just happens to like a hot chocolate before bed.)_

_Goodnight, dear Friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think!


End file.
